William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

did have a certain acquaintance who frequented these streets on less-open business; give him a few days and he would make enquiries.
    Monk gave him half a crown, and promised him another seven to make up a sovereign, if he would do as he suggested. Only Monk would need more than a word secondhand; if there were anything, he must speak to the witness himself. What anybody else’s business was in the street would remain unknown, and unquestioned.
    The constable thought for a moment or two, then agreed. Monk thanked him, said he would be back in three or four days, and took his leave.
    It was about three in the afternoon, cold and gusty, gray with coming rain. He could do no more about Dalgarno and Baltimore’s death for now. It was probably exactly what it looked to be, and everyone assumed. He could no longer put off the search he had known from the beginning he would have to make. He must go back to Arrol Dundas’s trial and see if the details would shake loose his memory at last, and he could remember what he had known then, the fraud, how it was discovered, and above all his own part in it.
    He did not know where the trial had been, but all deaths were recorded and the files held here in London. He knew sufficient details to find the file, and it would tell him the place. He would go back there tonight and face his own past, pry open the lid of his nightmares and let them loose.
    First he must go home, wash, eat, change his clothes, and pack a case, ready to go wherever it proved to be.
    He had expected Hester to be out, either working at the house in Coldbath Square or raising more money to pay the rent and keep it supplied with food and medicines. He presumed it because he wished it so, to avoid the confrontation of his own emotions. He was aware that it was a kind of cowardice, and was ashamed of it, but he imagined what her feelings would be if she were forced to face the truth that he was so much less than she believed, and that was a pain he was not ready for. It would be so violent as to disable the concentration and intelligence he must bring to bear if he was to keep his promise to Katrina Harcus and prevent any new rail disaster.
    Even that was an evasion. It was for himself that he would do it. It was his own compulsion never to allow such a thing to happen again. He must do that before he could bear to face the original which lay somewhere in his memory, fragmented, imperfect, but undeniable.
    He opened the door and went inside, ready to do no more than change clothing, pack, have a cup of tea and a slice of bread with whatever cold meat he could find. He would leave a note for her to explain his absence. Instead he almost ran into her as she came out of the kitchen, smiling, ready to walk into his arms. But he saw the uncertainty in her eyes that told of her sensitivity to his aloneness, the withdrawal of the old honesty between them. She was hurt, and hiding it for his sake.
    He hesitated, hating the lie and fearing the truth. It must only be seconds, less than that, or it was too long. He had to make the decision now! It was instinctive. He went forward and put his arms around her, holding her too closely, feeling her body yield and cling onto him in return. This at least was honest. He had never loved her more, all that she was, the courage, the generosity of spirit, the fierceness to protect, and her own vulnerability which she thought so hidden, and which was in reality so obvious.
    He pressed his cheek into the softness of her hair, moving his lips gently, but he did not speak. At least without words he had not deliberately misled her. In a moment or two he would tell her he was going away again, and perhaps even why, but for a while let it simply be the truth of touch, without complication. He would remember that afterwards, keep it in his mind, and deeper than that—in the unspoken memory of the body.

    It was late when he reached the public records office. All he knew was the year of Dundas’s death, not the date. It could take him some time to find the record, since he was not certain of the place either. But at least it was an uncommon name. If he had still been with the police he would have demanded that the office remain open for him to search for as long as he required. As a private person he could ask nothing.
    He simply requested the records section he wanted, and when he was conducted to it, sat on a high stool, straining his eyes to read the pages and pages of spidery